


A Demon Amongst Us

by EaselPen



Category: The Simpsons
Genre: Dubious Science, Everybody Hates Ned Flanders (except for me ?), Fluff and Angst, Homophobia, Lovejoy wants to be an excorcist, M/M, Pouring out my love for the Marge/Smithers BROTP, The happy parts - not the excorcism parts, Vaguely based on my experience of meeting my nephew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26177782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EaselPen/pseuds/EaselPen
Summary: When the leaders of Springfield’s Christian community learn of a birth most unusual, they take it upon themselves to set things straight. But for Marge Simpson, this encounter is all but professional, as she must come face to face with a close friend and their juxtaposed viewpoints.
Relationships: Carl Carlson/Lenny Leonard (implied), Charles Montgomery Burns/Waylon Smithers, Marge Simpson & Waylon Smithers
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	A Demon Amongst Us

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm actually writing a pretty huge series about these two which may or may not result in the scenario described here (I'm waiting to post that one until it's finished, or at least close to. 6 chapters and counting at the moment though!). Either way, it's a long way off and even if it does end up happening, it wouldn't be written from Marge's POV, which I really enjoyed writing! Honestly, I'm not sure if Burns and Smithers would end up having a kid, but if they did, I figure it would be in an unusual fashion and receive quite some backlash, and it would go a little like this...
> 
> Also apologies to my homeboy Tim he just seems like the kind of person who would get excited at the prospect of ridding Springfield of the hellspawn unleashed by its greatest villain haha.
> 
> And I'm aware that most babies have blue eyes at birth but I implore everyone to just roll with it.

Marge tucked her chin into her coat, shielding her cheeks against the November chill that grew more bitter by the day. She couldn’t help but feel like the air became even colder with every step she took. It had to be a bad omen.

It was November 12th. One day after it had supposedly happened. Marge, Lovejoy and Flanders were the only ones who knew, and it had been Marge herself who had informed them. She was the only one this information had been shared with, and she felt immensely guilty she had told the Reverend, yet couldn’t say she regretted it.

An icy mist of droplets trickled from the heavens, and Marge gave a shiver as she and her company reached the gates of Burns Manor. 

Lovejoy pulled down the hood he was wearing, taking a deep breath as he regarded the mansion. Then he turned around, brows furrowed in determination. “Are we all ready?” He asked. Marge gave a nod, looking over at Flanders, who seemed even more nervous than she felt. Warm, kind Flanders had only agreed to come along to assist the Reverend, and as an emotional support to Marge, though she felt like perhaps it was the other way around.

Eventually, he nodded, but then shook his head. “Are we truly doing this?” He asked, looking up at the mansion. “This place has always given me the heebily-jeebilies! And if what you believe is true, Reverend…” “What he believes?” Marge questioned, surprise heightening the pitch of her voice.

Flanders gave her a stare, and Marge turned to Lovejoy, who remained steadfast. “Reverend…” Marge started mousily. “Surely we are only here to make sure the child is… alright?” “I won’t lie to you, Marge.” Lovejoy spoke flatly, his voice devoid of any emotion. “We are indeed here to ensure the safety of the child, but…” He took a silver cross from underneath his robe, clutching the holy bible in his other hand. “If the situation calls for it, I will do my utmost to perform an _exorcism_.” “Exorcism?!” Marge echoed. “Oh my…” She turned her gaze to the asphalt pavement, worry gnawing at her bones.

“Please, Marge,” Flanders mumbled, drawing her attention. His brown eyes were pleading. “Surely… you understand that this child, well…” He cast his gaze up at their destination. “I have always said that all children are a gift, a miracle from our lord. But…” He looked back at Marge. “Surely you can understand I… sorta… doubt that statement, now?”

“Hrrm…” Marge murmured. She did understand, and even shared Flanders’ opinion. Nevertheless, Lovejoy’s measures seemed drastic. “I don’t think Mr. Burns would like that very much.” Marge argued. “In fact, I doubt he’ll allow you to bring a cross into his home at all!” “He won’t know.” Lovejoy answered ominously, placing the cross back into his robe. “For all he cares, we are only here to welcome the child to our community. Ned will barricade the door once we enter the room.” He continued to explain, and Marge felt her eyes grow wide.

“W-What about Mr. Smithers?” Her heart twisted when mentioning her friend, someone she even considered her best friend. At least, until…

“He’ll be too busy, uhm,” Ned tapped his fingers together. “Err…” “He’ll be protecting his _husband_.” Lovejoy snarled. 

“What on earth are you _planning_ here?” Marge gasped, bringing a hand to her mouth.

“Whatever is required of us.” Lovejoy told her. Then his gaze softened, and he stepped forward to place a hand on Marge’s shoulder. “My child, we weren’t able to put a stop to the… _construction_ of this being. And of course we would never wish harm upon it. All I’m meaning to do is to prevent a catastrophe. Now, you and I both know Mr. Burns would want to cause rather than prevent a catastrophe… do you truly believe Burns to spend a fortune on something that doesn't somehow net him another good billion to his name?”

Marge averted her gaze once again. “I’m… not sure if I can find myself in that mindset, Reverend.” She admitted, and felt Lovejoy’s warm and calming hand retreat from her shoulder, leaving her cold. “I do agree Mr. Burns has a… a rather, uhm,” She rolled her eyes, looking for the right word. “ _Destructive_ personality… However, as far as his reasons for wanting this child go, I truly don’t believe they are based on his greed at all! And besides, this baby isn’t just a copy of him, he’s…” She sighed, a spark of hope warming her heart. 

“He’s fifty percent Smithers, too, who is one of the most gentle, caring people I have ever had the luck of meeting.” She said with a smile. “Surely no child of his could be _that_ evil?” “You’re right, Marge.” Flanders told her, and Marge felt her smile widening until she saw the sorrow in Flanders’ gaze. “He _is_ Burns and Smithers’ son.” He gulped audibly. “Burns _and_ Smithers’ son.” He let out a groan, casting his gaze up at the heavens, his glasses wettening with precipitation. 

“Oh, Lord, how could we let this happen?” Flanders questioned.

Normally, Marge would have told him that a couple’s decision to have a child was theirs and theirs alone, no matter who or what those two people are. Normally, she would have gently suggested Flanders was quite rude for wishing to have prevented not just the creation of a child, but her friend’s and his partner’s wish coming true. Normally, she would have called the whole situation looney and turn straight back home.

But this wasn’t ‘normally’… this was a being created by some freak scientific experiment, by merging the DNA of Waylon and Mr. Burns together and allowing it to grow a perfect nine months, then awakening it from its slumber. It was horrific, blasphemous, and a crime against nature. Which had made it all the more jarring that Waylon had spoken of this being with the love of any parent-to-be.

His eyes had been dreamy, as he gestured out the future with his hands, telling Marge all about the places he would take his son to, how sweetly his husband would read to him, how he would do anything, absolutely anything to protect what would be his perfect little bundle of joy from harm.

It was a sentiment that Marge thoroughly shared with him. In any other situation, had it been an adoption or surrogate or other more acceptable method, she would have been overjoyed at the news and been the first one to hit up the baby clothes aisle.

...not that she didn’t have a little bodysuit the color of Waylon’s favorite bowtie with her, but that's besides the point for now.

All that Marge could picture now was Waylon’s expression, hurt and broken, when she had panicked and told him she thought it was a bad idea, unnatural even.

Unnatural… the very word seemed to trigger something within Waylon that Marge immediately wanted to put in reverse. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-” “Of course it isn’t natural, Marge.” Waylon had sighed, staying calm, though Marge hadn’t missed the growl hidden deep in his throat. “It’s as unnatural as it gets, really. But people used to say the same about people like me. They still do, actually, sometimes with a couple of punches and a death threat thrown in for good measure. But I never let that stop me, and I won’t now. Because…” 

Marge hadn’t noticed he had been tearing up until he looked straight at her with those big eyes of his, golden in the kitchen light, wet and shiny. “Our baby may be created scientifically, but my want to have and raise him _is_ natural. And our love for him will be, too.” And then, he had narrowed his eyes at her, and she was reminded of how such a sweet and tender person could be the lifelong partner of none other than Mr. Burns.

“Which is more than you can say.” 

She had promptly shown him the door.

And he had left her a message on her answering machine, that he hadn’t meant it and that her situation of unplanned children had been completely different from his opportunity to create one through biological science, that Marge’s love for her children was inspiring to him, that he had only been so bitter and defensive because already, he cared more for this child than he does for life itself.

She hadn’t called him back. And that was the end of it. 

Oh… if it weren’t for that blasted Frink and his outlandish experiments, and Burns’ neverending wealth, and… Waylon’s tendency to romanticize everything to the point of it being unhealthy.

Marge shook her head.

“Let’s just go.” She decided. “Let’s just go and do everything in our might to take control of this predicament.” 

Lovejoy and Flanders nodded, and the sky seemed to grow darker and darker as they neared the front door. Lovejoy stepped forward, knocking a ring fastened between a metal snake’s teeth firmly against the wood. The sound echoed eerily, and the low, distant barking and howling of hounds reverberated through the manor’s hallways.

Eventually, the door was answered by Waylon. He stood in a pristine white shirt, pressed flat to perfection, his chest in a proud arch and gaze stoic as he regarded Lovejoy, then Flanders, then Marge… where his detachment melted and his bushy eyebrows creased in… what? Hurt? Concern?

But it had only been for a split second, and now Waylon was staring straight at Lovejoy. “May I help you, Reverend?” He asked.

“We came to see the antichrist.” Lovejoy told him bluntly, and Marge had to refrain from groaning into her palm.

Waylon shut the door just a bit, eyes wary like a lion protecting its cub, though he might blame it on the draft and Burns’ old bones. “He’s sleeping.” He told them, and Marge couldn’t help feeling relieved. They wouldn’t want to wake a sleeping newborn; the matter was out of their hands!

“Smithers, dear?” Came from behind Waylon, and soon Mr. Burns’ hawkish gaze appeared over Waylon’s shoulder as if summoned from the darkness itself. “Who are you talking to?” His voice sounded almost frighteningly gentle, his gaze uncharastically warm as he looked at his husband. The moment he noticed the crowd, however, that familiar frostiness returned to his demeanor.

“They’re here to see Charlie.” Waylon told him, a hand clenching protectively over his shoulder. 

‘ _Charlie_ ’... Waylon had told Marge his son would be called Charles Montgomery Burns Jr., but it seemed like he would go by ‘Charlie’. Oh… how very sweet.

Marge longed to hug her friend, congratulate him on his successful… birth? Fabrication? But Lovejoy and his resolution stood in the way, as the Reverend seemed just about ready to dash between the two men and sniff the baby out.

Burns’ seemed to be mulling the words over in his head, unblinking. Then, his overbite twisted into a crooked smile. “Well, can you blame them?” He placed a hand over Waylon’s at his shoulder and gave him a comforting pat. “Who wouldn’t?” 

Despite murmurs of protest from Waylon, Burns stepped in front of him and held the door open, his arm stretched out in welcome. “By all means; come in, come in! He’s right upstairs…” 

Marge swallowed. Despite Waylon’s unbeatable love for the man, there was no way she would trust him with even just her purse. Nevertheless, she gave a polite, “Thank you, Mr. Burns.” And was the first to walk past him into the manor.

“Y-Yes, thank you.” Flanders squeaked with a sheepish smile, hurrying after Marge, hardly refraining from clutching her arm. “Very well.” Lovejoy nodded, following the others.

“Oh, Reverend?” Burns called, tapping Lovejoy on his shoulder, who turned around.

"If you would be so kind as to leave the cross and holy bible outside… such items tend to make me feel rather… queasy, you see." He gestured out the door, and Marge could see the blood draining from Lovejoy's face as Waylon held his hand out.

Muttering prayers, Lovejoy retrieved the book and cross and handed them over to Waylon, who left the manor.

"It's pure placebo, of course." Burns explained, who by now had his arm draped over Lovejoy's shoulders as if he were his old schoolmate, ushering him up the stairs.

Marge felt Flanders' arm brushing her own, along with Waylon's cold presence at her back as they, too, climbed the stairs to the next floor.

They were led through a hallway of paintings and sculptures, all the way to a framed 'birth certificate' next to a door. Burns opened it, giving a welcoming bow for them to enter, and once they were in the room Marge turned around to watch Waylon shut the door with a firm 'bang', his steely gaze burning into hers.

She quickly turned back, where a woven crib covered by transparent linen stood next to… oh, this must be the master bedroom.

Waylon stepped past her, taking his place next to the crib as if it were Burns’ desk, one arm placed against his back and the other brushing away the linen. He looked less like an adoring father and more like a mad scientist revelling in the fear of those facing his experiment.

Marge checked over her shoulder, where Burns stood, fingers tapping together as an anticipating smirk formed on his face. It almost looked like he was… blocking the door. 

What was that about _them_ going on some harebrained scheme to keep the two fathers out? And Flanders had been meant to barricade the door? Flanders, who was shivering and shuddering beside her, sweat dripping down his brow?

Lovejoy took a stance in front of Marge, almost protectively, as if only he could shield his comrades from the flames of hell that were sure to emerge from the crib. He took a step forward, inching closer to the child slowly, slowly…

“This is ridiculous!” Marge cried out, shoving the Reverend aside with a grunt and leaning determinedly over the crib. 

She could feel Waylon’s warm glow next to her, and soon all her fears melted as what she saw were neither horns or a tail nor goat legs. What she saw wasn’t even a baby, really. 

No, in the crib lay a sleeping _angel_ , giving a tiny coo and wriggling its little arms in the midst of a fitful dream, the beginnings of brown curls leaving a fuzz on its round head. Cheeks rosy and temptingly squeezable. A teeny, pointy nose in the middle of its dear face.

“Oh my _goodness_ ,” Marge gasped.

“What? What?!” Lovejoy shrieked, hopping up next to her, his hands on the weavings of the crib, effectively rocking it and making little Charlie open his huge, hazel eyes- _Waylon’s_ eyes, before squeezing them shut and letting out the beginnings of a frail cry.

“Oh, my…” Flanders had made his way up beside the others, a couple fingers trailing below his bottom lip. “Aren’t you just the most precious little… blessing of God.”

But the words did nothing to soothe Charlie, who had officially entered a frenzy and was kicking his little feet, crying his tiny lungs out for his fathers. 

Waylon practically knocked the trio of visitors aside and gathered his baby up in his arms, shushing and cooing at… his son.

Oh.

Marge could feel tears of happiness well up behind her eyes, warm and cleansing, as she stood back and watched Waylon gently rock Charlie back and forth, a thumb stroking his soft little cheek. “Shh, it’s okay, sweetheart. These people are all so happy to meet such a wonderful miracle as you.” He hugged Charlie close to his chest, as the baby started mouthing at his thumb.

“He’s hungry.” Waylon gave a warm, goofy smile, absolutely lovestruck. It reminded Marge of their teatime the day after Burns- after Monty had proposed to him.

“Why don’t you go and feed him, darling?” Came the once again gentle voice from Monty, who had seated himself on the bed. “Hopefully he’ll eat a bit more today…” He mumbled, and Waylon walked over to him and kissed the top of his bald head. “You worry too much, Monty. The nurse said he was doing fine, remember? It’s too early to determine if he has trouble eating.”

“Still…” Monty huffed, seemingly wanting to be angry at _someone_ for making his child not eat as much as he was perhaps meant to. 

Waylon gave his husband’s shoulder a squeeze before taking Charlie out of the room. Marge stepped to Monty, who was hunched over in worry, though perhaps he always was. “Mr. Burns, I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but I have a son of my own…”

Monty brought his gaze up to her, blue eyes big and pleading. “He had trouble eating, too?” He guessed, voice so innocent, almost childlike, that Marge found herself forgetting who he really was. “Yes.” She nodded with a smile. “But can you blame him? My little Bart, he was so small… I felt so dejected, and worried… and at some point, he wasn’t gaining the weight he was supposed to.” 

At that, Monty’s expression turned frightful again, almost upset, like he would have Marge beheaded for making him fear for his son’s safety. But Marge knew he was far too glad to receive another parent’s counseling to be angry with her. 

“But my husband and I kept trying, and trying… and eventually, he was able to eat more and more, little by little, and then,” She chuckled. “He wouldn’t stop! He liked everything we gave him.” She rolled her eyes mischievously. “Of course, _that_ didn’t last long. Before you knew it, we had to hide his peas in his mashed potatoes.”

“Hmm,” Monty gave a thoughtful hum, staring at his long, twiddling fingers. “Your son, he must have started high school, recently?” He wondered, cocking his head up at her.

“Yes.” Marge confirmed, surprise in her tone. “Just last september.” “He is growing well, then.” Monty gave a satisfied, relaxed nod. It was strange, how his mind seemed to deny Homer’s existence yet kept the rest of his family forever with him. Marge wondered if her son’s blood was still circulating through his fragile system.

“Mr. Burns,” Flanders began as they stood back in the main hall. “We are diddly-dang thankful to welcome little Charles Jr. to our happy community.” He was beaming, and Marge knew he must feel immensely relieved. “And what a lovely name!” “Ah, yes, I was pushing for Lucifer, but my husband insisted on the suffix his father had given him.” Monty placed a hand on his chest, and Flanders’ expression slowly faltered with realization. 

“Hm, yes.” Lovejoy seemed embarrassed rather than relieved, though perhaps also a little skeptical. Confirming this, he leaned towards Marge’s ear and whispered, “Or, it’s one of Satan’s clever little tricks, making Charlie look like the most perfect little cherub, while in actuality-” Marge gave him a playful shove. 

At least ‘the child’ had been upgraded to ‘Charlie’. Lovejoy would come around, or at least he wouldn’t be trying any exorcisms anytime soon. Marge hoped he didn’t feel too disappointed, he had seemed rather excited to try.

“Why, thank you.” Monty smiled a smile that reached his eyes, which then became hooded. “Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for the lot of you. Mrs. Simpson, could you position yourself behind me?” “Me? Uhm, okay…” Marge mumbled, shuffling over until she was facing Monty’s back, taking in the confused expressions of Lovejoy and Flanders. She gave a shrug, just as dumbfounded as they were.

“Excellent.” Monty tapped his fingers together, then called out, “Smithers, dear, release the hounds!” 

Flanders and Lovejoy gave a jump as frenzied barking grew louder and louder, Monty’s pack of vicious dogs bursting into the hallway and making a bee-line for the two men, who by now were running out of the front door.

“Wait, my bible!” Lovejoy cried out, but Flanders was pushing him forward. “Leave it, you can have one of mine!” 

The barking disappeared into the front gardens and stilled, then back came the dogs, panting joyfully and wagging their tails with pride as one of them dropped a piece of Lovejoy’s robe into Monty’s hand. “Oh, Nipper.” He praised, giving Nipper a pat on her head. “So loyally ferocious. Off you go now, daddy will bring you some well deserved treats later.” He pointed to the door, and the pack obediently toddled out of the hallway, sniffing Marge curiously as they passed her.

“Mrs. Simpson,” Monty presented his arm to Marge, and she felt obliged to take it. He led her into the- a, living room, as Marge peered apprehensively over her shoulder. “I do hope they’re okay… I mean, they were a bit rude, I admit, but…” “Oh, don’t concern yourself over those ignoramus adventists.” Monty waved the notion away.

“My hounds will prioritize my dislike of lawsuits over their instinct to brutally kill. Though you can hardly blame them for nipping a bone or two- hmpf!” He harrumphed, anger in his solemn eyes. “Think they can touch _my_ son, worming their way into my house by singing his praises, calling him an antichrist. Well, Junior’s company is reserved for only the utmost worthy, such as myself, and you.” He gestured to himself and then to Marge, and she felt strangely flattered.

They seated themselves opposite of one another. Monty crossed his legs, as did Marge. He was regarding her with an odd air of respect. Odd, in the sense that Marge had never heard of Mr. Burns being respectful to anyone, as he would consider anyone beneath him.

“You see,” He started. “My Smithers considers you a very good friend, Mrs. Simpson. And a friend of his is a friend of mine- to a certain degree, of course.” 

Oh, so they were still friends! Thank goodness. 

Monty tilted his head at Marge. “And you hadn’t expected our Charlie to be anything _but_ perfect, did you now?” 

She didn’t miss the skepticism in his voice, though surely he must believe her, since she wasn’t with the others fleeing the mansion. “Oh no, Mr. Burns, never about your son.” Her need for honesty betrayed her. “Perhaps, just for the way he was… born.” 

“Oh, he wasn’t born,” Monty obliviously corrected. “He was created by the marvel of science, and me and Smithers’ highly compatible genes.” He seemed rather happy with himself, his usual hunch replaced by a proud arch, long nose in the air. 

“It’s very ‘new age’, hm? To have a son delivered from a test tube- oh, I certainly had my doubts about it too, at first, but once you submit yourself to the very wonder…” He sighed. “The wonder that… I had never expected to rear a child of my own- to my knowledge, that is. Just as I had never expected to fall in love with my _lackey_.” He chortled. “Life never fails to surprise me.”

Marge wriggled out of her coat with a relieved sigh, warmed by both the crackling hearthfire and Monty’s attitude. She had never seen this side of him, joyful and curious, convivial. Perhaps she could finally understand Waylon’s infatuation a little better.

Of course, that is if you look past the immorality, corruptness, erraticness, impoliteness, and by God even the _ugly_. Well, nevermind.

“I was wondering…” Marge started.

“I’m happy to answer any burning answers you must have about my son.” Monty beamed, and Marge gave a nervous chuckle. “Well, uhm, it’s about your husband, actually. I was wondering why you still call him ‘Smithers’. You know, just out of curiosity.” She snickered, placing a hand in front of her lips. “I can’t imagine calling my Homie ‘Simpson.’” 

“Oh, well, Smithers is still my Smithers!” Monty explained happily, the leg that was crossed over the other dangling in the air. “And he always will be. That’s why I insisted on him keeping his name after our wedding.” He stroked his chin, looking down at the floor as if peering into the depths of hell. “That, and the fact that my father would turn in his grave otherwise. Or, you know, rise from his urn to haunt me.”

Right, Marge could remember Waylon being a bit dejected over Monty’s unwillingness to share his name with him. On the other hand, she understood; it would be weird if there were two ‘Mr. Burnses’. 

Waylon entered the living room, Charlie in his arms.

“Speak of the devil!” Monty patted the seat beside him, and Waylon gently lowered himself onto it. Monty pushed his head against his husband’s shoulder before leaning over it, Waylon’s hair brushing against his scalp as he slanted back against him, and together they observed their baby’s every little movement.

“He’s so sweet.” Marge cooed, and Waylon was pulled out of his fatherly trance to smile up at her. “And a handful,” He admitted. “I’m glad to have a mother of three to talk to.” He averted his gaze bashfully, his foot shuffling on the floor. “That is, if you’ll have me.”

“Oh,” Marge gave a sympathetic murmur. “Absolutely.” How had she ever allowed a rift to be formed between them?

“Would you like to hold him?” Waylon proposed, and Marge gave a start. “Oh! Uhm, yes! Yes, of course.” She held out her arms, not missing Monty’s scorching stare as he watched her gingerly. A friend of his husband’s, sure, but untrustworthy nevertheless, Marge guessed.

Waylon placed Charlie in her arms, and Marge could feel herself tear up almost immediately. Her own kids were growing up so fast, even Maggie was too old to hold like this now. She had nearly forgotten how small newborns were. 

Placing a finger against Charlie’s little open palm, the boy responded by squeezing her with what strength he had. “Aw, oh gosh,” Marge chuckled, and looked over at the couple in front of her, where Waylon had his arm draped over Monty’s shoulders and pulled him close to himself. To bring him comfort, but mostly as if to say, “Look, we made that.” And that much was true.

“It's incredible you managed to make this happen.” Marge admitted, and Waylon gave a nod, more stoic now. “Yes, and I believe it promises great things for the LGBT community. So many couples wish for a child of their own, and the adoption process is still so taxing…” 

Monty furrowed his thin brows at him. “Is that so? Weren’t Carlson and Leonard attempting adoption...” “Yes,” Waylon nodded. “And they still haven’t gotten through.” 

Marge remembered Homer telling her his friends, who had recently gotten engaged, were trying to adopt a child. She was hoping a couple of two would have more luck than her single sister had, but it still seemed to prove difficult, especially since Carl and Lenny weren’t exactly well off. 

“It’s not fair,” She muttered. “Homer and I didn’t exactly have our fundings in order when I got pregnant with Bart, but we still got to welcome him into our family.” She smiled kindly. “Thanks to your employment, Mr. Burns.”

Monty tore his gaze away from his son and gave Marge a blank stare, blinking twice. 

“Your box-tick from sector 7G, sir.” Waylon clarified, and now Monty’s brow furrowed. Then he gave a shrug. “Yes, yes, happy to help, and such. Could I have my son back, now?” He seemed irritated that Marge hadn’t thrown the baby into his arms the moment he yearned to have him back.

Waylon got up and took Charlie from Marge. “Say bye-bye,” He told the boy, waving his little hand for him. Marge laughed and waved back.

Gathering Charlie into his arms, Monty gave a content sigh as he shifted and went to lie down on the sofa, his feet ending up at Waylon’s lap where his husband began to undo his laces. Monty settled Charlie onto his slim chest, and the baby burrowed in his blanket against him.

“Oh, Charlie,” Monty cooed. “You will break hearts, raise fortunes, and conquer the world.” 

“Oh, that reminds me!” Marge grabbed the bag she had shoved underneath her seat. “I got you a little something.” She rubbed her knees together nervously, biting her lip. “Now I know it's no satin or cashmere, but…”

Waylon was already taking hold of Monty’s ankles to escape from underneath him, then took the present from Marge, peeling the tape off carefully so as to not damage the wrapping paper, and gave a soft gasp. “Oh, Marge,” He held out the bodysuit. “My favorite color!” 

Marge beamed proudly, then looked over at Monty. “He’ll let him wear it, won’t he?” “Hmm,” Waylon gave a thoughtful hum, smiling warmly at his husband, who seemed to be falling asleep, his breathing matching the rhythm of Charlie’s.

“He will when he’s too busy to care.” Waylon decided, and Marge gave a mischievous snicker. 

“Thank you, Marge.” Waylon said. Marge’s smile faded as she looked at Waylon’s face. He was still smiling, but his brow had knitted, his eyes tired like he hadn’t slept since Charlie had officially entered life. It was the expression of a genuinely thankful, but just as genuinely exhausted father.

Marge held her arms out, waving them towards herself as if to pull Waylon in with the force of it. He gave a happy sigh, setting the package down and sitting down next to her, leaning into their hug. 

“I’m scared.” He confessed softly after a moment, and Marge stroked his back in long, soothing motions. “I know.” She squeezed him tight.

“I just hope I will always be able to be there for him.” Waylon sighed, slumping against Marge, fighting the fatigue while she had to fight his weight. “My father… well, you know what happened. I want Charlie to know me, and to be able to tell others about me long after I’m gone. I want…” He took off his glasses and pinched his brow, rubbing his eyelids before looking at Mr. Burns, who Marge could swear had never looked so innocent and peaceful.

“I want him to have all the love a father should give his son, love Monty never received from the one who brought him up. Love that he’s been missing out on for a hundred years until finally, finally... he let me in.” He heaved a shuddering sigh. “I’m so happy, Marge. I’m happier than I’ve ever been, yet more afraid than I ever thought I could be.” “Nothing makes you as vulnerable as having children.” Marge nodded against him, knowing the feeling, and Waylon nodded back.

“If Monty passed, torn as I’d be… I feel I would be able to make peace with it eventually. Especially since, in the end, I was able to make him feel loved for his last years of life. And if I die, well,” He gave a grim chuckle. “I can hardly say I’ll be able to care.” 

Marge wanted to remind him of heaven, but sternly told herself that her friend was an atheist and this was hardly the time to be converting anyone. Just her listening ear had to make do to comfort him for now.

“But Charlie, oh, if anything happened to him.” “He’ll be alright.” Marge broke their embrace, her hand staying on Waylon’s shoulder. Waylon looked at her with hopeful, trusting eyes. Marge had always thought he looked a bit like a labrador.

“The trouble my kids got up to- still do, really. Why, Bart’s been hit by your husband’s car and hunted down by an attempted murderer, but he’s indestructible!” She gave a chuckle, laughing away her worries like she always tells herself she should. “They’re made of stronger stuff than they look like.” 

She looked up at Waylon, who was now taking in the heap of love on the sofa across from him, his family. He looked like he trusted Monty with his own life and Charlie’s twice over, while Marge didn’t quite understand how the man had kept _himself_ alive for so long, reckless and stubborn as he was.

It hardly mattered, though. 

What mattered was her friend’s happiness, and Marge realized now that that was all that had ever mattered in the first place.


End file.
